Anonymous Espials

3 am struck, it tolled, muffled as though it was breaking through the lining of the drenched tatters on the textile of the night.

The stars, came ever closer, detached from their glow-- they dolefully rival the glaze-- the metope of an aphotic faience.

They those, unnamed sprites of the sky-- transient, they quickly crossed the pain of inexistent time, and a Terpsichorean angel, shadow dances on the laconic lines on the cornices of my eyes.

3:01, just a second to steal a taken thought, listening as they rustle, likened to the flutter of the last leaves on the untouched winter white of my bed.

3:02, and the double side of your pillow is streaked with a flash of silver-- moonlit memories that drown on the amber, mephitic vapors of fossilized notions.

5:00 am, and my thoughts wrestle in the throes of a Jacobean dream, ascending and descending-- the cold meridian of my lips. If I cursed you to damnation; if I curse you with my lower and bless you with my upper, will you let me lie in peace?

6:55, and the sun races across my composure, tossing aside the turning of my pillow, the night is gone and those who owned it but for a while have all but disappeared.

I turn on my side, freed from the frown that dusts the ballads on my rumpled nightdress. I lament for what lingers on the mist of anonymous espials...the loss of the night I kept awake-- sleepless.

The curse lingers on the fringes of a litanious anthology, and the day splintered repents for the origin of my sin.

A lullaby soothes the bending night-- to rest.